


The Worst Thing About the Zombie Apocalypse

by comfycozysweaters



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gore, M/M, Violence, Zombies, mental health, probably more idk this is ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comfycozysweaters/pseuds/comfycozysweaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the end of the world, but damn it all if the human race isn’t going to go down without a fight. From Military outcasts to Patient Zero they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make a life for themselves in this Hollywood Blockbuster wasteland bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted from tumblr.

The absolute worst thing about the zombie apocalypse, Donut decided, was the monotony.

Sure the early days were filled with fear and uncertainty as whatever-the-hell spread and turned friends into ravenous brain dead monsters, but after the initial panic, running and hiding and fighting to stay alive as the human population dwindled, the excitement died. Reports and coffee breaks were replaced with skull bashing and endless days on the road, searching for nirvana or other survivors or something, _anything_ , to end the boredom that had descended upon their pitiful group of three. Really the only question Donut had when he woke up each morning was if this would be a zombie free day or not.

Honestly if it were up to him, he’d have settled down on a farm after the first year and sought his thrills in gardening and hunting. Lounging around on quiet days in nothing but a pair of trousers, sipping wine, reading trashy romance novels, and watching as the Sun set from a comfortable four poster bed or suede couch or OH maybe a padded deck chair! Because he’d totally have a deck. And a pool. In fact forget the regular ol’ farm, make it a ranch. He’d heard most large properties were abandoned shortly after the outbreak so his dream home would totally be available.

Alas it was not up to him.

Not unless he wanted to spend that time in solitude which, while tempting at times, was like not at all appealing to the social butterfly in him. Nah he’d save that fantasy for retirement.

A smile tugged at his lips at the thought and he couldn’t help the slight laugh that escaped.

Retirement.

As if one could retire from the zombie apocalypse!

“Something funny, Private Pinkie-Pie.” Despite being phrased like a question, the gruff voice gave no room for an actual answer. No doubt Sarge was just making sure he wasn’t drifting off when he was supposed to be navigating them through the mountains of Colorado. It _was_ Donut’s destination they were headed to after all.

Still, the younger man crossed his arms and rolled his eyes dramatically in return. “Sarge, my fatigues were dyed lightish red once three years ago in a hazing prank during Basic! It’s hardly a relevant source for nicknames.”

His Sargent, ex-Sargent really, huffed and gave him a Very Pointed Look. “I’ll consider a change when you ditch the hat, princess.”

Donut sniffed and stomped down the urge to reach up and adjust said hat, instead using that restless impulse to smooth out the map that was resting in his lap and double check their route. Judging by the silence from the backseat, Lopez was either ignoring the conversation or asleep. Probably the former. It was an old argument, one he’d had with Sarge so much it was practically rehearsed, and the old mechanic had long since grown weary of it. Besides, the man never seemed to sleep, certainly not when they were driving (barring those few days a month they sometimes spend driving non-stop trying to outrun their shitty lot in life).

According to the map, they weren’t far off from the isolated ski village Donut had spontaneously decided they _must_ visit before Winter moved from powdery snow to the sludge of early Spring. Close enough he reached back and prodded Lopez so they could count their ammo and check their weapons before they arrived. The mountains weren’t as bad now-a-days after several winters had frozen out most of the zombie hordes, but they had learned after a rather unfortunate fishing expedition in Michigan that the infection wasn’t always so predictable. Whatever it was that turned people into cannibalistic walking corpses could mutate and adapt and the blue sons of bitches it created in colder climates were a lot more formidable than the stumbling idiots that had populated their base in Florida.

Lopez grumbled, but otherwise kept his insults and running commentary to a low mutter that barely registered above Donut’s joyful humming as they got to work. Sarge tightened his hands on the steering wheel of their reinforced jeep, eyes darting towards each sign they passed looking for the exit and steeling himself for the imminent fight once they arrived.

Sure enough as they pulled into the village they were greeted with flashes of frozen flesh glinting in the sun light among the snow. The infected had yet to notice the Jeep and its passengers but just the confirmation that there at least a few Blues populating the area was enough put a grin on Sarge’s face and send Donut’s pulse racing. The snow plow they’d attached to the front of Jeep cleared a path and they found themselves following a forgotten road past buildings that had once housed vacationers and employees but now stood dark and foreboding in their emptiness until finally reaching an area that might have been considered a square of some sort, with shops and condos lining the decrepit cobble stone pathways in a phony-baloney semblance of an actual village or community of some sort. Donut could just see the ski lifts beyond the roof tops.

He made no attempt at being quiet as he holstered a pistol, grabbed a rifle, slipped his jacked up bat through his belt and jumped out of the vehicle, running off down the street in search for the rental shop, Lopez close behind him. It wouldn’t matter soon anyways.

He shot three infected before he heard arguably the most obnoxious song blaring out of the Jeep’s speakers followed by a litany of mirthful cursing and jeers. Not surprisingly a chorus of sickly groans rose up, moving towards the sound only to be met with blasts from Sarge’s trusty shotgun and, when that became insufficient, machine gun.

It was just as they had planned. Sarge distracted the majority of the infected, drawing them away from Donut and Lopez and giving them a chance to do what they needed with Donut clearing out any stragglers and covering the mechanic as he worked and vice versa.

They’d done this song and dance before it was practically second nature! The only new challenge this situation brought was the nature of what they were trying to do. This wasn’t a gas or food run, no search for a place to lay low at for a few months, no supplies to grab and go or hospitals to raid or vehicles to procure.

Nah this was a little more complicated than any of that but with a lot less long term pay off aside from the break in the unending monotony for a bit of fun.

They were going to go skiing.

Or Donut was. He was pretty sure Sarge would be more comfortable on a snowmobile and Lopez was _such_ a snowboarder he probably already knew how. Either way this was just what they needed to liven things up again!

Lopez thought it was stupid. Donut pretended not to understand him despite having learned enough Spanish to do just that by now and Sarge didn’t care so long as he got to gank some motherfuckers in the process. Preferably in a new and exciting way.

Now all they had to do was find the damn rental shop, find a snowmobile, and secure their Jeep somewhere it wouldn’t get over run by zombies while they were on the mountain.

As they rounded a corner, narrowly avoiding a run in with two sturdy Blues that Lopez dispatched while Donut course corrected into a slide across the icy ground past them, the Private spotted a rather large building with tall displays showcasing various Winter Sports gear. Well that cleared up one part of the plan.

They slowed down as they reached the store front, pausing to peer past the broken windows and scope out the interior. It was a fucking mess like most places were after the initial panic and looting, but otherwise looked safe. Still they shuffled around the side, bypassed a door marked emergency exit (those alarms didn’t just stop working because no one was around to hear them as they’d found out the hard way), until they found the back door. Slipping in, weapons at the ready, Lopez and Donut went slowly, scoping out the hallway, break room, and eventually the rear of the shop. He could feel his hands shaking with anticipation as the rental area came into view, but forced them still. Waiting sucked dick but it was nothing in comparison to being jumped because they skimped on clearing the area. Sure enough as soon as they stepped into the open a zombie lunged at them from behind a service counter. Donut reacted just in time to slam the butt of his rifle into its jaw, sending the thing sprawling to the ground. It was fast to recover, already crawling back towards him, mouth now hanging grotesquely open, with a speed that would put the Hollywood zombies to shame. Fucking Blues. He swung the rifle over his shoulder, switching it out for his bat to avoid drawing any more attention and brought it down with enough force to cave the thing’s head in. It was gruesome, but effective. For good measure he hit it again.

There was no time to rest as he turned and met another with an up-swing to its chin, hearing Lopez somewhere behind him dealing with his own undead motherfuckers. The nails in his bat tore through the zombie’s brittle skin and sent it stumbling backwards, knocking over a rack of super cute sweaters to the floor. Such a shame. Donut didn’t give this one time to recover and went straight for the fatal blow. Unfortunately for him, Blues were stubborn sons of bitches and, unless one had the advantage (i.e. numero uno being in mid-air with no support), hard to take down without a fucking gun. Mister Clothes Rack for example managed to dart forward just in time for the bat to merely glance off of his shoulder instead. Donut squealed as he attempted to turn away and avoid the thing, cringing as the action did the exact opposite and sent him barreling solidly shoulder first into the zombie’s chest. With no time to think he grabbed his pistol, pressed the barrel flush against its neck, and squeezed the trigger, praying the shot would be muffled enough not to draw a crowd.

Donut only had a second to catch his breath and smear the blood from his face before he was set on by another one. And another. Motherfucker two of these bitches that is so not FAIR! Without hesitation he hefted the bat up and struck the first in the same movement as he shot the second. Another solid smack and they were both down in a gross pile of death and decay. His eyes darted around the shop as he readied himself for another attack, not relaxing until Lopez, similarly covered in guts and gunk though to a lesser degree, called out from the front of the shop with the all clear.

When had he gotten over there?

Grabbing a kid’s shirt from a nearby rack, Donut joined him. He half watched Lopez break into the cabinets and sort through records and files as he carefully wiped his face and hands clean with the garment. The rest of his attention was drawn to the merchandise scattered around the shop. He carefully stepped over a crumpled corpse to pick up a snow globe with a buck standing among some trees inside of it from a curiously untouched display. With a grin he turned and held it up. “Hey Lopez, do you think Sarge would like this? I know it’s awfully gaudy and such a cliché Christmas present, and that we don’t really _do_ Christmas, but it totally looks like something he’d love, right?”

Lopez looked up long enough to give the item a once over and frown. “ _There is a store full of useful winter gear here and instead of grabbing a duffle and filling it with clothing and supplies, you’re wasting time picking out useless junk and asking stupid questions._ ” At Donut’s expectant smile, he sighed and rolled his eyes, going back to searching for any record that would show where any snowmobiles would be kept. “ _Si._ ”

Donut made a happy noise at the confirmation and stuffed the snow globe into his jacket pocket. With a skip in his step he set to checking the shop out in earnest. After a few minutes of flitting back and forth, sharing his opinions on various items, he did indeed grab a duffle from the ground and start shoving jackets, gloves, scarfs, base layers, socks, goggles, pocket warmers, ooooh were those the little wipes that kept glasses and stuff from fogging up???? and pretty much anything he could fit in it. By the time Lopez finally fished out the information he needed, Donut had changed out of his dirtied clothes and had new outfits picked out for the mechanic and Sarge. Lopez begrudgingly took his and disappeared around the corner to change. There was no way in hell he’d open himself to the, often well-meaning and oblivious but no less off putting, _comments_ the younger man was in the habit of throwing out if given the opportunity by undressing in front of him.

By the time the mechanic returned, Donut had raided the equipment and was setting up a pair of skis and boots to use. Lopez, just as predicted, grabbed a snowboard and left it with his own choice of boots for the blonde to set up before wandering over to gather safety gear. Once they were both satisfied they righted a bench and took a seat, listening for the sound of their third member. When it became obvious that the man had not paused in the slightest since their arrival, Donut fished out his walkie and radioed in. “Sarge. Come in Sarge. Senior El Roboto and Double O Donut have completed objective number one! Rendezvous uh…,” He looked blankly at Lopez searching for mission-y sounding words but Lopez was no help with a shrug and muttered insult, “to your two o’clock at...,” a quick glance to the sign that hung over the door, “the High Flyer.”

There was a crackled lack of response and he repeated the message.

Another minute or so passed before Sarge’s reply came, bringing with it relief Donut didn’t realize he needed until then. “Comin’ to you, Pink Private! Get ready to hop in these gosh darned Blues ain’t got the decency to stay dead.”

Lopez sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before standing and walking over to the door. Donut followed with a little more pep. “Roger!”

He waited for Lopez’s signal and then they rushed out of the door together, Lopez hurling himself and their gear into the side of the Jeep as it came crashing down the road and holding out a hand for Donut. It was rehearsed, practiced, and still the moment their fingers touched, Donut hit a patch of ice and lost his footing. “Son of a bitch!” He screeched as he slipped, trying simultaneously not to fall and to continue forward. There was a group of Blues coming up and there was absolutely no way he was going to be felled by an unlucky step! The Jeep hadn’t stopped or turned back though so it looked like he was going to be playing catch up. He didn’t bother with more than his pistol as he changed directions and headed to an alley on his left, letting four shots fly blindly into the group behind him. There was no time to check if he’d made his mark. He saw the Jeep turn just as he entered the alley and thanked God for his long legs as he propelled himself towards the other end. Blood rushed in his ears and a grin split his face. As crazy as this was, as fucking terrifying as it used to be being chased so closely by the undead, he was finally excited. Finally feeling a surge of something other than momentary fear. Finally having fun again. He made it just in time to grab Sarge’s hand and haul himself up and into the Jeep with an adrenaline fueled “WOOHOO!” The improvised strategy must have caused the same thrill to rush through Sarge and Lopez, because the sentiment was echoed in Sarge’s grin and Lopez’s smirk.

Just for funsies, Sarge whipped the Jeep around, back wheels sliding almost too much, and drove the plow right through the few that had made it through the alley in time. “Suck it ya dirty Blues!”

Donut laughed.

After that the rest of the plan went off without a hitch. Sarge managed to fit the Jeep into what was once a bike cage and considered it a success even though they all had to climb out of the driver’s side and couldn’t actually lock the gate door. When told to fix it, Lopez just shoved a trash bin in front of the gate and told Sarge to shove it, though only Donut understood and he purposefully mistranslated to keep the jovial spirit of their success going. The snowmobiles were a little harder to get to but a garage full of Blues was nothing they hadn’t seen before and honestly once they were on a snowmobile it was a matter of speeding through them and leaving them in their dust. Sure it was awkward with three grown men and ski equipment squeezed on one ride, but they managed.

 Once they were at the peak of the mountain, it all became worth it.

At least in Donut’s eyes it was. He couldn’t really speak for the others, though from Lopez’s steady gaze out over the valley and Sarge’s contented slouch, he could guess.

The Sun was at its peak, making the snow shimmer and shine below them, only disrupted by the crawling tree lines and slight flutter of snowflakes drifting form the sky. Blue above, white below. Ski lifts dotted the mountain side in broken lines like remnants of a long forgotten civilization, broken down but beautiful in the eerie quiet of the day. The far off village mimicked the feeling, almost completely buried with no evidence to the carnage they’d wrought earlier. It was peaceful. Possibly the closest they’d come to pretending things were normal since the epidemic began. If Donut closed his eyes and took a deep breath of cool mountain air, he could almost picture this area as it had been the last time he’d been there. Teaming with people, live people, happy families riding lifts and mingling in the town, and taking to the slopes with the excitement of those that only had a few days left of vacation before they returned to their dreary lives elsewhere. He could practically hear his mothers encouraging him, coaching him on the bunny slopes, teasing him as they raced, applauding him as he crossed a finish line and nabbed second place in a race that hadn’t taken place here but it was close enough.

He adjusted his goggles and with a grin back at his companions, his family, he took off. “Last one down gives the Jeep a _thorough_ work over!”

A vacation from reality was just what they needed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross posted from tumblr
> 
> I have no update schedule as I usually just post as I write so catching up to what I've done so far. Hope you guys enjoy!

Being Patient Zero to the zombie apocalypse was the fucking worst shit in the God damn world. Not because he was the first to turn, or even turned at all, but because what started the fucking end of the world was, for him, the equivalent of the fucking sniffles.

Ok maybe it was a little worse than the sniffles, but it sure as hell wasn’t a violent fever that burned through his body and short circuited his brain, making him a ravenous unthinking monster. Seriously. He checked himself into the hospital with what he had thought was a really persistent flu. Next thing he knew he was quarantined, carted off to a medical research facility (which ya know his dad fucking worked at so that was a fun surprise) and going through test after test with like zero answers to any of his fucking questions the entire time he was there.

Alright so maybe the whole hemorrhaging from the eye thing should have been a red flag that it wasn’t the flu, but how in the hell had that turned into zombie…ness?

He didn’t fucking know. All he knew was that it fucking sucked.

God fucking damn it.

 _God fucking damn it_.

Leonard Church Junior, also known as Patient Zero or Subject Alpha or, to a wider range of people, the asshole leader of Blue Team, a shitty team in San Antonio, Texas’s paintball league, dug his fingers into his scalp, tugging at his hair as he rocked on the balls of his feet. He was having trouble breathing and seeing and thinking because right in front of him, like three feet in front of him, was the very gruesome and very dead face of Subject Beta, also known as his bitch ex-girlfriend or that hoe that saved his ass like fifty fucking times and helped him and whoever was fucking left in the project break out of the facility because something shady was going down. Tex because she’s from Texas and her parents were cruel apparently. Texas like his mother’s old moniker from her black ops days because Allison was too soft a name for a badass like she was.

Tex was dead and it was his fucking fault in ten different ways.

Distantly he could hear Tucker trying to bring him back to reality, trying to get him to count to ten, focus on something other than _Tex’s fucking crusty ass face_ , but he just can’t. He just… can’t.

Patient Zero.

Except it wasn’t like this for him.

He didn’t die.

He didn’t become… undead.

He didn’t lose control and get shot in the god damned head by some fruity ass military fuckers because what else were they supposed to do with a zombie charging them?

He tried to think about what went wrong. What started this. When did whatever he had mutate into a malicious and rampant virus.

The facility.

There’d been tests done. More subjects brought in. He’d only met Delta and hadn’t even known Tex was involved until she broke them out. Omega was the first to turn aggressive but it was Sigma that went berserk. Tex told him this. Tex. Beta.

What had she said?

His father tried to find a cure through his illness but it wasn’t for him. His mother hadn’t died on the battle field like his father had told him, she’d died in a hospital, hemorrhaging from the eyes and withering away to nothing. He was trying to find a cure for her. Rushed tests, forged paperwork, botched results…

His father’s obsession, his grief, had manifested in this frenzied search for a cure and the results were the opposite. It intensified. Became contagious through contact. Rampant. Surged through the test subjects until they were nothing but empty husks, hungry for something to, anything, to fill the endless void that consumed them. Gamma went braindead. Sigma became ravenous. Delta lost all sense of touch, smell, taste. Theta, _God_ he was just a _kid_ , paralyzed and never not exhausted. Eta and Iota didn’t even make it through a day. Epsilon was the smart one of their group. Took care of himself as soon as he realized what was happening. Omega was contagious. They hadn’t expected that. It’s what really started the outbreak. Omega turned aggressive, broke out, and infected the world. Tex might have been the cure. Beta. Nothing was wrong with her. That’s what everyone thought.

They were wrong.

It was just slower.

It took a year to manifest and by then Church had rejoined his teammate Tucker and their boss Flowers (he was in the project too he was there his father _planned_ this) but then Flowers was a zombie and Church took a paper weight to his skull because he couldn’t run and he was so fucking terrified. They ran after that, confused and scared. Ran right into a god damn tank of a man who they still weren’t sure where he came from but they couldn’t get rid of him after saving him like one fucking time so whatever welcome aboard Caboose the more the merrier. Of course the fucker was an idiot and Church was zombie chow within the week. Or would have been, if Tex hadn’t swooped in like God damn George of the Jungle literally swinging from a fucking chord and sweeping him off of his fucking feet from the middle of a swarm.

Thank God he was immune and she knew basic first aid from her time in the army or he’d have had to _kill_ Caboose.

So ok tangent he was on a tangent, spiraling further and further away from the present because it hurt too damn much and it was so much _easier_ to think of watching Tex beat the ever living hell out of zombies and any asshole they ran across that gave them trouble instead of Tex laying still with sludge leaking form her eyes and mouth and the bullet hole in her forehead.

 _Snap out of it you fucking idiot_.

Someone was hauling him to his feet, away from Tex. Dragging him until he became too much of burden and then he found himself clinging to Caboose’s shoulders, head pressed firmly into the nape of his neck and legs squeezing his sides as the younger man carried him on his back. They were running. The fight from before, Tex snarling and screaming and lashing out, had attracted company and they couldn’t stay any longer.

_God, Church, don’t be such a pussy. Seriously get over it._

_But you’re dead. You’re dead and it’s my fault. My dad’s fault._

_Please. Spare me your egotistical pity party._

He was in a car. Tucker was driving. Caboose was sitting up front. Tucker was uncharacteristically patient, answering Caboose’s questions and playing along with whatever game he’d chosen to pass the time. They were driving through a desert which meant they could be anywhere from Texas to freaking Nevada. Church sat up and caught Tucker’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

His friend, best friend, popped open the compartment between the driver seat and passenger seat and passed his glasses case back to him without a word.

The world came into sharp focus and Church wished he’d stayed asleep.

“Church’s awake! Church, Tucker is sooo bad the Alphabet game it’s like he’s not even trying! I’m all the way to ‘M’ and he still hasn’t spotted ‘A’!” Caboose was practically turned all the way around in his seat, eyes bright and smile headache inducing in its enthusiasm. “Will you play with me instead? He’s so dumb. It’s boring.”

“Hey fuck you, asshole! I’m busy driving I can’t look out for stupid letters _and_ cart your sorry asses around.”

“This is not a cart, Tucker. This is a _car_. There is no ‘t’.”

“Oh my God if you don’t shut the fuck up I am going to shoot you.”

“That’s not very nice.”

Being Patient Zero was the fucking worst thing about the zombie apocalypse, but honestly no the worst fucking thing was listening to Lavernius Tucker and Michael J. Caboose, two adult men, vying for his attention day in and day out.

“Both of you shut _up_ and turn on some fucking music so I don’t have to listen to your incessant whining.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross posted from tumblr
> 
> another short chapter, mostly exposition.

Carolina lost everything to the zombie apocalypse.

Her mother, though she had died twenty-three years ago, was lost to the disease that Patient Zero later showed symptoms of.

Her brother disappeared into quarantine and she’d heard nothing since.

Her father turned into someone she didn’t recognize anymore, wasting away, not as her mother did, but slower, over a stretch of years with a steep decline after her brother, his son, became Patient Zero.

She joined the military to be like her mother, went to medical school on the military’s dime to be like her father. In the end she was like neither and lost everything to a woman with her mother’s name.

Church barely knew her. He was sick as a child. In the hospital most of the time and when he wasn’t she was kept busy, trying her damnedest to live up to the memory of her mother and make her father happy again. She never thought her father was deliberately keeping them separated, but after everything that had happened over the past year, she wondered.

Her brother got better as he grew older, although his memory would lapse occasionally and the last time she’d visited him he didn’t recognize her outside of “someone who was in the same squad as Tex” because Tex was his girlfriend. She’d always been competitive with Tex, but that was the moment she started to hate her. The worst part was that Tex understood her hatred, understood the reason and accepted the blame. She had even tried to help at one point, but Carolina had brushed her concern off, seeing it as an insult, as pity.

It was something she’d always regret.

They’d had another brother.

Younger. So much younger. He lived with his mother and Carolina visited him regularly, trying in vain to make up for the time she’d missed with Church. He was probably her best friend.

Their father took him away and the infection got him in the end.

She hadn’t been there for him either when he needed her the most. She was helping with her father’s research, sure, but there was more than the medical side. The company he owned was sponsored by the military though that wasn’t public knowledge. He developed and tested weapons and technology for them and in the last two years of the project, he focused on biological warfare. Her team bounced from black ops field work to lab coats depending on where his focus was centralized and she had seen nothing odd about it. She didn’t know Church had been brought in until after he was gone. Tex had been pulled from her team to become Subject Beta and still she didn’t bother to ask who Subject Alpha was.

She was so blind in her trust of her father she only knew about Subject Epsilon after David was relieved of duty on medical discharge with a recommendation for an extended stay in an institution, all expenses paid for by the Project how the hell had she not questioned that.

Her team wasn’t the same after that. Or maybe the change had started with Subject Beta and was so gradual in its decline that it slipped her notice until it was too late. Connie was trying to inform the outside of what was happening, warn them, shut the project down, but the infection got her. Or that’s what they were told. Subject Omega broke free, infected half the lab, including Subject Sigma who went berserk and infected Maine in his attempt to contain them. Beta took advantage of the chaos and fled with Alpha.

Her team scattered.

York helped Subject Delta to escape. North took Subject Theta and even South left. Reginald’s son, Subject Gamma, kept him at the project but he no longer worked under her father. Flowers went missing. Maine became a subject. Subject Meta.

She was dead because of him.

To everyone who mattered she was dead.

Allison Church may not have passed her illness down to Carolina, but her blood still flowed through her veins and the mutated virus did nothing but give her a pounding migraine and the munchies for a week.

Carolina watched the world burn because of what her father had done. She watched the human race dwindle and turn on itself as fear and panic warped countries until there was nothing left but people just trying their best to make it through the day. It was too fast and too violent and by the time the entire world was aware of it, by the time plans had been made, governments and scientists organized, it was too late.

Her brothers were lost to her. Church was out there, sure, but she lost him the second she decided to value her father over him as a child.

Her mother was a memory bitter and distasteful in the wake of what it had driven a heart broken lonely old man to do.

Her friends were gone. If they were alive, they knew to stay hidden. Avoided her at all costs. Except David. Despite having not heard from anyone, she knew they were all avoiding David, herself included.

Her father was…

Her father was trapped in the past.

The man who wore his face and cannibalized the whole of humanity lived. Thrived even.

The outbreak took everything from her before the apocalypse even began and by the time she was finished, it would do the same to the Director.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross posted from tumblr
> 
> a chapter full of hand holding and grimmons! finally sat down and did an outline for this series! going to be following a semi-cohesive timeline rather than jumping around wildly like i usually tend to do. this chapter has some vague medical references that are hopefully accurate. research can only tell you so much about personal experiences so i tried not to go into depth lest i fuck up lmao. i did fudge the recovery time for a live donor for story purposes.
> 
> thank you to everyone who has read and left kudos! super pumped to keep this up. :D

Considering their first IRL meeting was in a hospital with barely enough time alone to say hello, Dexter Grif didn’t have high expectations for their first real date. After all, what could be more awkward than waking up from surgery only to see your, until then, exclusively online boyfriend on the bed next to you after having donated his freaking kidney to keep your ass from dying? That’s right. Nothing. He’d almost closed his eyes and forced himself back into a coma right then and there from sheer embarrassment and, from the look on Simmons’s face, the feeling was mutual.

So, logically, things could only get better, right?

Wrong.

The awkwardness had lasted through their week-long stay in the hospital, resulting in stilted conversations that were nowhere near as casual and heated as their chat logs and calls, frustrating the both of them to the point of preferring silence. Simmons was quick to anger and easier to offend in person, snapping at just about any joke Grif used to break the ice and nitpicking his habits to an annoying degree. Grif hardly took anything serious, seemingly lacking a filter between his brain and his mouth and spouting insults and excuses like they were exchanging pleasantries. Their only reprieve during their stay together was Kaikaina’s visits. For whatever reason his crude sister was able to put the both of them at ease and get them actually quipping like normal until she left. She even penetrated Simmons’s defenses, getting the man to actually talk to her, a woman, without his voice cracking and choking up. A miracle worker, that one.

After they were released and parted ways with a horrible attempt at a hug and sincere expression of gratitude, Grif was almost positive they were over.

Imagine his surprise when he logged into WOW later that night and a message from Simmons popped up.

So… looks like I’m inside of you now which means I won the bet. You owe me gold, fatass.

Grif couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face.

completely different and u know it.

Their first official date was scheduled a month later. After the horrendous experience of the hospital, they had decided to keep it fairly casual with coffee, free wifi, and a gaming session. They were terrible at interacting without a screen so having something to act as a buffer as they got over the novelty of being in each other’s physical presence seemed smart. When Simmons suggested this, Grif had pointed out they’d done a lot more than just talk through a screen and Simmons had gone bright red, earning the other a slap to the head via a text from Simmons to Kaikaina. Traitor sister.

So there they were. Sitting in a coffee shop they’d determined to be a perfect halfway point for them to drive to (a town over, but Grif had a car and Simmons was used to cab rides), Simmons with tea and Grif working on his second cup of some sugary concoction that wasn’t really coffee anymore, laptops open, WOW on the screen, actually talking like normal human beings, when shit got…

Weird.

Not with them. But like… in general.

Reports had been airing for several weeks now about a strange disease sweeping the nation, but considering it was flu season and the media loved to make a big deal out of any new strain that popped up, neither of the shut-ins had paid them any attention. Or not enough to do more than continue their argument over zombie plans (the irony isn’t lost on either of them even years later). If they had they’d have noticed the tracked progression across the United States, the advisements to stay indoors, hell even the few stations that had recommended evacuating to the nearest disaster center. They wouldn’t have chosen that coffee shop in that town which had reported ten cases in the last week and they would have been more cautious and less aggravated when police showed up with orders to barricade the doors and stay away from the windows.

As it was, it just seemed odd. Simmons was the first to react, his fear of authority figures making him jump out of his seat and start shoving his belongings back into his bag. Grif was slower, rolling his eyes and grumbling about being inconvenienced as he followed suit at Simmons’s prodding. Time seemed to slow after that. Grif remembered Simmons looking almost scared of whatever it was the police had them hiding from and he remembered calling him an idiot as he grabbed his hand, squeezing it in reassurance. Simmons had called him a cockbite and squeezed back before hastily letting go. The triforce was shaved in his hairline.

After that it was a blur.

Gun shots on the street. Shuffling and wet thumps as the shots met their mark. A sudden chilling scream that sounded too human to be animal but too animal to be human and then running and fighting and what the hell was with the really gross wet noises?

A window broke and the entire café dissolved into panicked rushing and scrambling for the door, people unsure of what they were running from but still trying to escape to their cars. Grif heard more of those screams and decided fuck that, grabbed Simmons, and dragged him towards the back door and out into an alley.

Simmons just followed, clinging to his backpack like a lifeline.

“What the hell was that?” Grif pulled him through the alley, across a street, and kept going from alley to alley avoiding the main street where sounds of a struggle (an attack?) were still pouring from.

“The fuck if I know! But it sounds like bullshit I don’t want to mess with.” He was already finding it hard to breath and his surgical scar was starting to ache. “Just keep up! I parked a few blocks up. If we can get to my car I can get us the hell out of here.”

Simmons snorted, easily keeping pace even as his heart pounded in his ears and chest burned from exertion. “You keep up, fatass.” It was a poor attempt at a comeback made mostly to keep himself from thinking too much on the noises that followed them. As they passed another street, he gritted his teeth. “Jesus how far did you park?! I half expected you to park _in_ the alley just so you wouldn’t have to walk to the café!”

Just as he finished his sentence, Grif came to a sudden stop, causing Simmons to slam into his back and send them both stumbling forward.

“What the fuck, Grif?” He glared down at the shorter man.

Grif wasn’t paying him any attention, instead his gaze was locked straight ahead on what had to be the most disturbing scene he’d ever seen, and he’d grown up at a freaking circus! “Shut up, Simmons. And don’t… don’t make any sudden movements. Just follow me and slowly walk towards the wall.” Judging by the choked off squeal and sudden painful grip on his hand, Simmons had finally looked up. Several feet ahead of them was what appeared to be a woman, grimy as hell with congealed blood leaking from her eyes and various wounds, including a torn off arm _jesus_ , chowing down on some poor son of a bitch’s torso. Where the other half of him was, Grif really didn’t want to speculate on. All that mattered was that the ravenous thing was occupied and the parking garage was right around the next corner.

They moved, slowly, carefully, shuffling over to the wall and flattening themselves along it as best as they could. If it were physically possible, they’d sink right in. As it was, they started inching their way around the spectacle, eyes glued to her as she pulled out the man’s heart and bit into it like an apple. It was going so well that Grif honestly wasn’t surprised to hear a slight scuffle as his foot hit a bottle and it rolled away. The sound seemed to echo in the alley and they held their breath, praying it wasn’t loud enough to distract their new friend.

Their luck wasn’t that good.

Before they had time to react the thing was up and on them. Simmons reacted in reflex, shoving Grif out of the way and bringing up his pack in defense. The woman took him down, trying to bite at him and failing as he barely managed to hold her back. Thank god for heavy duty $50 backpacks and a shit ton of tech gear he always carted around with him. Still he was pinned on his back with only his legs free and things weren’t looking that great. He’d lost Grif, but hopefully the dumbass was running to get help or the car or _something_ that wasn’t just leaving Simmons to die like an idiot from some last minute heroic act.

A shot rang out and the body above him slumped forward.

His ears rang and he laid completely still, already working up a desperate plea for his life to whomever had just shot a _gun_ at them.

The weight lifted from him and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh shit _please_ don’t kill me I’m not one of them I wasn’t bitten or whatever and I’ll do whatever you want just _please please please_ don’t kill me!”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up and start running, I’m going to do just that, kissass.”

Simmons practically launched himself from the ground to grab Grif and hold him tight, ignoring the wheeze of pain from the other as relief surged through him. “Shit I thought for sure you’d have left me.”

Grif frowned and pried himself loose of Simmons so he could hastily shove the gun he’d used into his waist band and totally not use the opportunity to hide the flush Simmons’s reaction gave him. “As if. Then I’d have to deal with Sister bitching me out and making me feel guilty or some shit. Way more trouble than you’re worth.”

Simmons pursed his lips but the smile remained regardless. He took a second to collect himself (think about almost dying _later_ or ya know _never_ never works) and grab up his bag before studying his would-be murder. “So… zombies.”

Grif shrugged. “Guess so.”

“That sucks.”

Grif shrugs again and starts walking, way too exhausted to run when they weren’t being followed. “Car’s up here.”

Simmons gave the “zombie” a quick kick for good measure before following. “Where’d you get the gun?” And how did you know how to use one was on the tip of his tongue.

Grif looked a little uncomfortable at that, hand coming up to idly rub at his beard. “Off of her happy meal back there.” It was then Simmons noticed his hands and arms were covered in blood. The realization made him stumble as nausea hit, but he pushed it down. “Guy was a cop. Didn’t notice before since most of his body was gone and his clothes were in tatters. Found his gun while I was looking for a brick or something.” He gave a shaky grin and Simmons decided not to mention that it made him look like he was going to throw up. “Figured a gun would work better.”

Simmons nodded and muttered a thanks as they turned the corner. Grif was already holding the gun again, taking stock of the street before grabbing Simmons’s hand and once more pulling him along after him.

It was the first glimpse they had of the carnage they’d run from. Though this wasn’t the main street, the fight had spilled out into this one and the whole place was covered in bodies, body parts, and other unmentionable things. Some people were running, fighting for their lives and others looked lost, stumbling and straining just to focus. Simmons guessed they were in shock, or possibly turning from the wounds they sported. One of the dazed ones seemed to light up as they were watching, face turning tight and twisting with rage or hunger or both, and lashing out at the first thing that moved. Their victim fought them off with a broom handle as another took aim and shot it. It jerked back and seemed to stagger, as if it were going to go down, and then it charged with renewed vigor. Simmons and Grif looked away, not wanting to see the outcome.

“Always shoot for the head. Fucking amateurs.” Grif mumbled and Simmons had to agree. It was zombie killing 101. Never mind that they didn’t actually know what this was.

The walk to parking garage was tedious, avoiding people and monsters alike, but they managed it without any trouble. Seeing several advancing snarling zombies made Grif happy that he was indeed a lazy son of a bitch who had wedged his old truck into a compact car parking space right at the entrance. Simmons sneered disapprovingly, but didn’t comment on it as they slid in just in time for one of the zombies to slam against his door. He screeched and punched the lock until Grif started the car up and backed over the rest. They peeled out of there, swerving around people and uncaring of speed limits as they left. They didn’t relax until they were thirty minutes out.

With houses giving way to trees, Simmons turned to look at Grif and Grif turned to look at Simmons and they laughed. Hysterical adrenaline fueled laughs that brought tears to their eyes because Jesus Christ what was their luck?

Their first ever meeting only happened because Grif was fucking dying and Simmons _happened_ to have a compatible kidney and their first fucking date ended in the god damn zombie outbreak!

Grif grinned and pulled Simmons over for their first kiss and Simmons didn’t even mind that there was blood in his beard or that he was hot and sweaty and smelled of BO, because honestly he was probably just as bad.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did a crap ton of research for this one, but please let me know if you notice anything incorrect.  
> this is the most recent chapter so from here on out updates won't be as frequent. i started writing this to fill the time while i was waiting for projects to come in but now that the holidays are far behind us, work will be picking up again. it's been a lot of fun. :)  
> thank you all for your support so far!

Caboose was a mystery to his companions, not because he intentionally kept his past secret, but because he often times misunderstood questions which either led to him ignoring them or leading the conversation into a tail spin of unrelated topics. This frustrated Tucker to no end and Church dropped the subject completely after deeming it too much trouble. The only one who really seemed concerned by the lack of information was Tex and none of them paid attention to her attempts to bring that concern up, brushing her off as paranoid--which ok they had a point there—until finally she let it go. After a while even she got used to the man’s presence, his genuine care for their group and well-meaning actions cluing her into the fact that he was too _simple_ to be harboring any deceitful thoughts.

It took several months and a run-in with a stranger to get Caboose to finally break the ice.

They had shacked up in a small run down diner several hours outside of Dallas while they worked on a travel plan. Church had set up his sleeping bag in a booth and was dozing off complaining of a headache, Tucker and Texas were situated at the counter with several maps spread out before them, arguing about which roads to avoid and which to take, and Caboose was sitting on the floor by the back door playing lookout. Well Tex said he was playing lookout. Caboose wasn’t so sure she knew how doors worked because he couldn’t really _look out of_ a solid door.

It wasn’t long before the man grew bored and stood, stretching out his legs and thinking about announcing his boredom to the others before remembering how _mean_ they both got when he interrupted them. Straightening up, he tapped his knuckles against his mouth and hummed as he thought. There was nothing to _do_ here. He’d already completed the puzzles and word games on five of the mattes before realizing they were the same on each one and drawing on the back was only fun when Church was awake to show them off to. Tucker always called them dumb and Tex talked like she wasn’t sure how to respond, giving him those _looks_ that he’d seen on doctors’ and strangers’ faces when they realized he wasn’t as smart as they were. It was annoying. Church didn’t do that. Tucker didn’t either, but Tucker was stupid so it didn’t count. That was why Church was his best friend.

He rocked back on his heels and looked towards the door. He wasn’t supposed to go outside, but if he were quick and stayed close maybe Texas wouldn’t get mad? A quick look towards the diner showed the scary lady smirking as Tucker rubbed his arm. No doubt he’d made another pass at her and was suffering the consequences. Caboose winced thinking about the same possibly happening to him.

But if he were quick they wouldn’t notice.

He nodded to himself and grabbed a broom (just in case) before quietly sneaking out.

Thirties minutes later and Caboose was completely lost.

He was getting frantic as he wandered through the sparse trees that he had _thought_ was just behind the diner, but the diner wasn’t showing up and oh my god what if Church was _worried_ or Texas was angry what if he never found them and they left without him what if the diner was magic and had _disappeared_ with his friends inside of it?! It was such a daunting possibility the thought physically stopped him in his tracks. He plopped on the ground head in his hands as the many scenarios of magical destruction played through his mind. It was just so _hopeless_!

Just as any negative mood did, this one passed quickly as his gaze turned upward and locked onto the sky above. The stars were so much brighter out here than in the city. It reminded him of home. He smiled and crossed his legs. The others would find him. Church was his best friend after all. No magic disappearing diners would stop him!

Thoughts of home filtered through Caboose’s mind and his smile turned soft. He missed home. He missed his family. With everything that had happened since he’d met his new friends he hadn’t been able to think on them much. He was sure everyone was safe, his mother was a force to be reckoned with and his father was a powerhouse, but still he wished he could call them and make sure. If only he hadn’t lost his phone in the chaos of the, as Church put it, “clusterfuck outbreak.” It had his whole life on it. Every number, name, and address he needed. Notes about what to remember, dates and times and places for his professional and social life. Medical information he was supposed to keep on hand in case he got hurt or lost. Anything and everything he was incapable of retaining since his accident.

Thinking on that upset Caboose so he reached into his pocket and brought out the one link he had to normalcy, stroking the fabric and holding it lightly in his lap as he purposefully thought about nothing until the others came to find him.

A twig snapped across the clearing.

His head whipped up in a grin as he was _sure_ it was Church.

But this person was much too tall to be Church. And he was smiling which Church _never_ did.

Caboose stared at the man as the man stared back, smile dropping and hand moving to hover over his waist. Whatever he was afraid of, possibly zombie related things, must have been absent because he stuck his thumbs in his pockets and went back to smiling. Not one to be rude, Caboose smiled back.

“Oh man I didn’t expect to run into anyone _this_ far out of the city.” The stranger’s tone was light and happy and Caboose could already tell he was going to be a good friend. “You aren’t going to go crazy and try to kill me or anything, right? Because that would really suck and Sarge would be _pissed_ if I wasted ammo on a walk.”

Caboose thought for a second, leaning back on his hands. “I do not know what this ‘ammo’ is, but I promise not to take any.”

“Awesome!” He straightened in relief before walking over and taking a seat next to Caboose. After a moment of hesitation, he held out his hand. “My name’s Franklin Delano Donut, but most people call me Donut, probably because most of the people I know are military, but it might be better to stick to last names considering the circumstances.”

It took a moment for Caboose to recognize the gesture as a hand shake and he happily complied, finding this man’s jovial tone to be fun and matching it. “It is nice to meet you, Donut! My name is Michel J. Caboose.” Donut’s hand felt funny in his and he couldn’t help but look down curiously. It was covered in gauze and distinctly lacking three fingers. “Did the zombies get you?”

The question wasn’t accusatory, but Donut pulled his hand back with a nervous laugh. “No no no this was unrelated.” He reached up and adjust his hat—cammo that had once been regulatory green to match the fatigues he wore but was now a striking mix of pinks—suddenly unsure of his decision to sit next to the other. “I tried to learn some vehicle maintenance and found out that I am awful at it.”

Caboose could relate to that. “That sucks. I ran over my best friend and crashed our car into a wall the first time they let me drive.” Quickly backtracking he added, “but it was the car’s fault and Church was in the way and someone put a wall right in the road! So not my fault. At all. Cars are hard.”

Donut didn’t balk at the information and instead nodded with a serious expression on his face as if the other had said something very wise. “Yes they are.” He looked up at the sky and Caboose did the same, squinting to see if there was something new besides the stars that had caught the pastry man’s attention. “You picked a really good spot to camp out at,” Donut remarked, “perfect view of the night sky.”

Caboose felt pride well up at the compliment but it dampened as he realized it wasn’t entirely true. “I am not camping here. I went on a walk and got lost.” He perked back up, a determined look on his face. “But my friends will find me! Church will know where I am because he is smart and he is my best friend and he will find me and we will be back together and happy in the diner again.”

Donut shrugged seemingly unperturbed by the man’s rambling declaration. “Well it’s a good spot to be lost at then!” His smile hadn’t wavered and he was looking back at Caboose again. “And if your friends don’t find you, I’m sure I can help you find them. The main road isn’t too far from here and if there’s a diner around here, we’ll be able to see a sign at least.” He hesitated and glanced back the way he came. “Sarge might be mad if I’m gone too long, but we’re not leaving until Sunrise so it should be fine.”

With the assurance of help, Caboose grinned and threw his arms around his new friend, hugging him tight as the other froze in shock. “Thank you, Biscuit!” Donut smiled nervously and pulled away from him. He looked much more nervous now than he had before, but Caboose brushed it off. It was scary out here maybe he was just getting spooked by the trees! “Is Sarge your best friend?”

_That_ caused him to laugh, long and loud as the thought of his emotionally constipated CO reacting to such an absurd label flashed through his mind. Caboose wasn’t sure what was so funny but he grinned anyways as if whatever joke he’d made had been on purpose. Finally, Donut seemed to gather himself, wiping the slight moisture from his eyes. “God no. He’s more of a surly dad. Or crazy uncle. Five times removed.” He brought his knees up and rested his chin on them as he spoke, finding it a relief to talk with someone that wasn’t going to tell him to shut up or respond in a language he _barely_ understood. Besides, this Caboose fellow seemed harmless despite his large size. “He was stationed at the same base as I was in Florida when the outbreak started. Saved my ass from a brutal pounding and busted both myself and Lopez out.”

“Ah so he is a ghostbuster.” Odd for ghosts to be haunting a military base, especially with zombies on the loose, but Caboose would not question his new friend’s story. Donut seemed confused at this conclusion and looked up at him as if he trying to figure out if he was joking or not.

“Not quite? Uh more of a Zombie Buster.” Deciding to go with it, Donut shrugged and picked at the grass between them. “He kind of goes a little crazy with the zombie killing. We’re actually supposed to be headed up North towards Iowa to check on my parents, but he had us make a detour to Dallas after hearing the reports on the radio.” He pursed his lips and then smiled again. “It is fun though. Blowing off steam by beating off a city full of dead guys is pretty cathartic after seeing everyone you considered to be a friend turn into ravenous monsters that try to bite your face off for no good reason. Still I wish he’d not prioritize it over going home.”

From the way Donut rolled his eyes Caboose got the feeling that he didn’t mind delaying the trip home. If there was one thing Caboose understood, and there was One Thing, it was that ignorance was bliss. He didn’t mind that the other kept talking without prompting, weaving a tale of his harrowing journey from the kingdom of Florida, because he liked listening. It was a lot more fun than any of Tuckers stories which all had sailors and women or plumbers and women or just lots of women. He didn’t understand all of it, but that was fine. He didn’t feel as lost with a friend to listen to.

After a few minutes of this, Donut stopped talking and his face went red. “Sorry. I talk a lot. I usually have a diary to write everything down in, but mine got torn up before we left our base.”

Caboose did not understand why the man was embarrassed. He liked his talking. “You should get a new one if you lost yours.” He dug in jeans pocket and held up a flip phone for the other to see. “I lost my phone so Tex got me a new one! It doesn’t have any of the stuff my old one did, but that is ok because I can put new things in it.”

Donut stared at the phone for a second and smiled. “You’re right. I guess I could get a new one.” It was a simple answer but he felt overwhelming relief at the suggestion. Keeping one now, with the epitome of masculinity that was his Sargent breathing down his neck and silently judgmental Lopez watching everything they did, had seemed daunting. After dealing with the amount of hazing he had in a squad of his peers, he wasn’t prepared to find out how to older officers would react to his slightly less socially acceptable mannerisms. The insecurity seemed stupid now in the face of everything that had happened. He’d never let social norms get in the way of being himself before, why start now?

Great now that _that_ was off of his chest, Donut could focus on the fact that the man who claimed to be lost was holding a phone given to him by his companions no doubt with said companions’ numbers programmed into it. “Can I see that for a second, Caboose?”

Caboose didn’t hesitate handing the phone over, scooting closer to look over Donut’s shoulder as he flipped it open and scrolled down to a file named “Contacts.” He opened it and the taller man gasped in surprise. “Tex! That is Tex’s number! How did you get it onto the phone?” He squinted at the other. “Are you a mind reader, Mr. Biscuit?”

Donut laughed and shook his head. “No I am not, Mr. Caboose. If your friend gave it to you, she probably put the number on it in case you needed it, like if you got lost!”

Caboose lifted his chin and dropped his fist into his palm in an ‘ah-ha’ moment. “That is very smart. You are very smart.” Donut handed the phone back to Caboose and he took it, thumb hovering over the call button. “Do you think she would mind if we spent a little more time together?”

His eyes were so wide and innocent in the question, Donut couldn’t bring himself to remind the other he didn’t know this Tex person. Still he wouldn’t mind staying with Caboose for just a bit longer. He was so different from the private’s usual company and it was a refreshing. Call him selfish but so long as the Moon was still high in the sky, he wanted to keep their time together going. “Nah we can call her in an hour. If she’s really worried, she’ll call you.”

His new friend’s logic was sound so Caboose nodded and set his phone aside, keeping it out so he could see if it lit up with a call, but not bothering to touch it again. Instead his hands return to his lap and absent mindedly fiddled with the memento he hadn’t put away. “You can finish your story then! You were talking about the zombie pirates in Disney World.” Caboose supplied helpfully.

Donut had indeed been talking about their quickly aborted plan to ransack Disney World for Cotton Candy and free rides, but it had been a rather ambitious plan and resulted instead in way too many close calls and a terrifying Cinderella trying to gnaw his leg off. Really they’d only gotten a few feet into the entrance before high tailing it out of there, literally dragging Sarge out kicking and screaming because he was too blinded by blood lust to recognize a lost cause. It was one of Donut’s worse memories and still too fresh to revisit past an off handed comment (which Caboose had apparently zeroed in on), so instead he shook his head. “We can leave that for the next time we run into each other.”

Caboose seemed much too excited at the prospect of seeing his friend again to be disappointed. “Then what shall we talk about, Colonel Cru Sandwich?”

Donut hummed and cocked his head to the side, curiously gesturing down at the thing Caboose was playing with. “What’s that?”

Caboose blinked in confusion before looking down seemingly having forgotten he’d even been holding something. He pursed his lips trying to decide if he wanted to answer or not. In the end he held it up, letting the mask unfold for Donut to see. It was full face mask with holes for the eyes and mouth and a strip of patterned fabric hanging from the back of the neck. The colors were a brilliant blue accented with a slightly darker blue and the entire thing almost resembled a wolf. “This was my mask. El Genio Azul.”

It was weird hearing the name spoken so eloquently when everything Caboose had said up until that point had been awkward and stumbling. Despite his obvious hesitance, he looked proud. “The Blue Genius?”

Caboose nodded sagely and smoothed the mask over his knee. “Yes. From when I was a luchador. A wrestler.” That time seemed so far away now even though it couldn’t have been more than a few days, maybe a week since he’d taken the mask off and consequently ran into his new friends. He looked up and Donut’s mouth was shaped into an ‘O’, eyes wide with wonder. It was kind of a silly image.

“A wrestler! Like on TV? That’s so cool.” Donut had never been one to watch wrestling, but he vaguely recalled appreciating the uh _quality_ and _content_ of the program during his teen years. Nothing like a bunch of muscle bound men pounding away at each other to get his adolescent blood pumping! In a completely heterosexual way of course.

His companion grinned at the praise and puffed out his chest in pride. “Yes! My dad was one in Mexico before moving to the states to sign with the WWE. I followed in his footsteps and debuted last year.” He seemed to deflate a little at the thought. “They came to see me debut right before moving back to Mexico with most of my older sisters. Maria and Sofia, the oldest, stayed with me since they were wrestlers too, but Sofia was injured a few months ago and Maria took a break to have a baby so they went to Mexico too.”

Though Caboose didn’t say it, Donut could tell the loss of his sisters’ company was devastating with everything that had happened and he leaned over to bump his shoulder against the other’s. Caboose leaned into the touch and shrugged, smiling again. “They’re all together now. Which is good. Because I do not think a baby would be fun to be around right now. And I do not want to catch pregnancy during the zombie apocalypse.”

The statement was so absurd Donut couldn’t help but laugh. His mirth egged on Caboose invigorating the ex-wrestler’s story telling. “I was a good luchador! It was the only thing I’m good at. Fighting and being strong and being stronger than the other guy in the ring was very easy next to other things. Mamá wanted me to become an engineer, but I’m not very good with numbers or learning or reading anymore.” He paused as if realizing he had forgotten something and gave Donut a Very Serious Look as two fingers raised to trace over a notch in his hair line. Very faintly Donut could make out the tip of two prominent scars. “I was hit in the head very hard by a car. It was not fun.”

Well that explained some things. Donut nodded and pushed his hat back, revealing a series of ugly scars that twisted the skin of his scalp and ran down the right side of his neck to disappear into his shirt. He smiled. “I was in a car crash too. Six car pile-up caused by a semi overturning at the end of a tunnel. _Huge_ explosion. Lots of fire. _Totally_ cut into my dating options during high school.” Caboose smiled back and they both took a moment to revel in the fact that in this desolate time where humanity was going stark raving mad, they had somehow managed to find someone who could relate to their past struggles. Struggles that now seemed insignificant, but had been overwhelming at the time when they were surrounded by people who didn’t understand what it was like to have something so random leave a such a devastating effect on their life. Though Caboose’s scars were faint, his intelligence, or lack there-of, was a testament to his injuries and his survival in spite of them and likewise, Donut’s disfiguration (now with the added bonus of a mangled hand) and all of the strife it had brought him paled in comparison to his refusal to let them bring him down. People had been nervous and unsure around Caboose, making excuses to avoid conversations with him because they didn’t know how to handle his disability. Donut caused fear and disgust to cross the faces of strangers even as he smiled and talked in the friendliest way he could think to dissuade that knee jerk reaction.

Caboose wasn’t easy to talk to and Donut wasn’t easy to look at.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Donut shoved his palms against his eyelids and grinned so wide his cheeks ached as he dropped back to lay on the grass. Caboose didn’t understand it, but he followed suit, grinning as well and folding his hands neatly behind his head. For a while they stayed like that, smiling into the sky and enjoying the other’s presence. Caboose started talking again, because he’d forgotten he had been telling a story and he couldn’t just leave it hanging, and Donut happily listened, half wishing he didn’t have to leave to join with Sarge again.

“So I was at Wrestlemania, my first time _ever_ , when the bite-y people came. I hadn’t fought yet so I was backstage listening to other people talk and get ready. Most of them were my friends, but without my sisters they didn’t know how to approach me I guess. It was fine. I liked talking with friends when they wanted to, but sometimes it got to be really confusing so listening was easier. Especially when the other luchadores would speak Spanish. I used to know Spanish, but now it gives me a headache. Papá wasn’t too happy with that, but Mamá’s Samoan so Spanish isn’t her first language. I think she was secretly happy not to be the only one struggling to keep up with the family.” Caboose rocked his head back as he realized he was getting off topic again. “Someone in the crowd bit a wrestler. It wasn’t pretty. After that the stadium turned into a lot of screaming and running. One of my friends, an older guy I liked him I think he was an alien, grabbed me and made sure I evacuated with everyone else. They were loading us up onto the busses and I didn’t know what was going on. I thought it was a fun game and older guy said yes it was and to win I had to keep from getting bit or scratched and make it out of the city! That seemed pretty easy honestly I don’t know _why_ everyone was so scared.

So we were on the buses and driving when the bus in front of us went crazy! It was swerving and rocking and there was red in the windows. Our bus tried to avoid it but it tipped over and we crashed into it.” Caboose frowned. He didn’t like telling this part. This was when things got scary. Donut tried to reassure him that he didn’t need to go on, but Caboose shook his head. He made Donut tell him his story so he would do the same! “I woke up and my friend was pulling me out of the bus. Everything was fuzzy and my head hurt a lot. There were others climbing from the bus but zombies, and I know they were zombies because I’ve watched Zombieland and Shawn of the Dead and The Walking Dead a lot, were there too trying to get at us. He told me to remember the game. Wouldn’t let me go until I repeated the rules to him. After that he told me to run so I did and I didn’t look back because that would be breaking the rules of the game.” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m not supposed to, but I took of my mask. It was too hot and I couldn’t breathe.” His fingers dug into his neck. “I shamed myself. By taking it off like that. There are luchadores who go maskless in interviews and stuff, but my father didn’t remove his in the public until he retired and I wasn’t supposed to either if I wanted to live up to his legacy.” His face screwed up in the sudden wave of self-hatred. The one thing he was good at and he’d failed because some dumb bite-y people scared him.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and he turned to look at Donut. Donut was smiling, propped up on his elbow and looking to the world as if this _was_ just a camping trip and they weren’t talking about the end of the world. “I’m sure your dad will understand. Just being alive carries on his legacy, I would think. Besides,” he shrugs and grabs the mask to hold it up to Caboose’s face, “this fabric would _totally_ clash with your dystopian-chic ensemble. Much too shiny and _way_ too flashy. The zombies would spot it from miles away!” He sits up to fold it and holds it out to Caboose again. “Better to keep it safe and clean for when this whole apocalypse thing blows over.”

Despite not understanding half of what Donut said, Caboose felt much better and tucked the mask away in his jacket’s inner pocket. “You are very smart, Donut. I will save it until this movie ends.”

Donut popped his collar and raised his chin. “I am, aren’t I?” He looked up and realized that more time had passed than he’d thought and that it was probably better that he get Caboose to the main road sooner rather than later if he wanted to make it back to camp before Sarge left him. He stood and stretched with a satisfied hum. “Alright! Time for us to start walking.”

Caboose rolled to his feet as well, grabbing up his cellphone and shoving it into his friend’s hands. “First, you should put your number in this. Just in case you get lost too.”

Though there was a very low chance of Caboose being able to help him if he _did_ indeed get lost, Donut liked the idea of staying connected to other survivors. Maybe they’d meet up again one day! He took the phone and added his contact information before handing it back with Tex’s number highlighted. “Alrighty! You keep that ready and once we get the road, call your friend to come and get you. I’d stay longer, but I really need to get back soon.”

They headed out, Donut in the lead, filling the silence with chatter about the woods and how his mothers would take him camping and the boy scout uniforms being absolutely atrocious when he’d been one with Caboose interjecting his unrelated comments here and there. They really weren’t far from the road and as soon as they cleared the tree line, Caboose could see the diner’s neon sign lighting up the overpass just ahead. He grinned at the sight and turned to hug Donut in thanks.

“Thank you, Admiral Cream Puff! I can find my friends now!” He set the other down and watched as he straightened his shirt and hat before smiling up at him.

In a silly impulsive move, Donut stood at attention and saluted Caboose. “Good job, Private Caboose! Continue on your mission and may we meet again.”

Caboose liked this game and mimicked him, laughing as Donut turned stiffly and started marching off into the woods. What an odd man. He turned to the road again and began walking towards the exit, stopping only to wrench a mile marker out of the ground (because he forgot his broom and this looked better anyways) and call Tex. The phone rang only once before it was picked up with a very loud and _angry_ snarl.

“Where the _hell_ are you, Caboose?! We’ve been worried _sick_ over here!”

In the background he could barely hear Tucker’s voice saying something like “that’s a _lie_ ” followed by the sound of a stool toppling over and a loud curse. Tex probably punched him again. Ha.

“Do not worry, scary lady! I was lost but I found my way again and I see the sign.”

There was a heavy sigh. “ _Good_. Are there any other signs you can see? I’d feel better if you weren’t just walking all the way here alone.”

He was about to mention that he hadn’t been alone, but Tex didn’t like making friends so maybe he’d keep Donut to himself for now. Instead he studied the exit sign as he walked up the ramp, noticing the symbols that usually stood for different gas stations pictured. “I am by a sign with the gas stations on it. The diner is across the bridge to myyyyy… let’s see that hand makes an ‘L’… left!”

“Good. Stay there and _stay alert_. I know we cleared the area when we first came up, but it’s been a few days. It’s possible more… _zombies_ … have shown up.” The word ‘zombies’ was said with such malice, Caboose actually cringed. She sure didn’t like that term. Oh well. He stopped and leaned against the sign.

“Ok!” She hung up without saying goodbye—rude—and he pocketed the phone again.

Five minutes later and Tex pulled up in Tucker’s car, looking disgruntled and ready to blow a fuse. Caboose chose to slip into the backseat instead of ride shotgun with her. She gave him a once over, pausing only at the mile marker, before sighing and relaxing against her seat. Though she didn’t speak, Caboose knew she wasn’t mad anymore. Or if she was, she was too tired to act on it.

A win-win for him.

Tucker wasn’t quite as quick to dismiss him though. But it was ok. Even though Tucker was dumb and stupid and not his best friend, he had worried and still cared about him so Caboose merely asked for pancakes and orange juice and watched as the other, still lecturing him, went to light up the stove.

Tex stretched out in the booth seat opposite of Church watching them with bemusement and mild irritation. Church was still soundly asleep, snoring, glasses sliding off of his nose.

Caboose might never see his family again, but he didn’t really mind. His new family was shaping up to be pretty great. He smiled as his hand bumped against his phone. And it was growing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going a little out of order with this one, but it will tie into the next two chapters so w/e
> 
> here's some family feels for your friday

“I am sorry, sir, but the tests proved fruitless and I’m afraid the Subject has had a negative reaction to the latest serum.” The nurse before him lacked any warmth or sympathy in her voice as she delivered the news. Just like every drone in this god forsaken program she was completely clinical while dealing with the Agents. Maybe it was out of fear? Or perhaps Reginald was becoming accustomed to the unprofessional mannerisms of his cohorts and anything less seemed cold in comparison. Still despite her attempt to remain calm and collected, the nurse hesitated before speaking again.

Taking pity on the poor thing, Reginald inclined his head to let her know he was listening. “Negative in what way, dearie?” Usually his familiarity was enough to get the doctors and staff to loosen up at least a little, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on the young woman. She broke character, only for a moment, but it was enough to crack his confidence and let doubt seep in. Her fingers tightening on her chart, the shallow breath she sucked in as if preparing for the worst, her shoulders tensing; all signs of bad news.

With the project’s history, the threat of bad news in relation to any subject promised to be more than just the Worst Case Scenario. Worst Case Scenario he could handle. Death was something he’d come to accept long ago, that had been his Worst Case Scenario for years, but lately the phrase took on a new meaning. Death was now the Best Case for failures, replaced with a state of being that mutated with each new variable. Any of those states were horrible to think about which is why up until this point, he had been thankful for the purely professional confrontations with any doctor or nurse in regards to the subject. They may let a smile slip or a joke wrinkle their brow, but they never hesitated. They never stopped talking.

And they most certainly never looked at him with emotion clearly written on their faces.

Funny how he’d just been complaining about the nurse’s seeming lack of empathy just seconds ago and now he longed for it to return.

“He’s… I mean they… the subject that is…” Her stammering only made his anxiety worse. His hands tightened where they were folded across his chest and he has to physically will himself to keep from clenching his jaw or snapping for the woman to just spit it the fuck out. She takes another breath and forces herself to calm down. When she speaks her voice is steady once again. “After a long fight with a very sudden high fever, Subject Gamma has slipped into a comma and is unresponsive to all stimuli.”

She continued, but Reginald has a hard time following. A ringing started in his ears, growing in pitch as his mind spirals with this information.

“He is currently dependent on Life Support with no promise of recovery.”

His vision grew blurry, colors bursting to life all around him in a fuzzy static-y way that makes it hard to focus on anything. Absently he realized he felt light headed and should probably sit before he has an intimate meeting with the floor.

“Though it is faint and minimal, there _is_ sign of brain activity. We have no way to determine if this is temporary or not, however, and in our professional opinion it is not enough to warrant continued Life Support.”

Reginald bit his cheek in an attempt to ground himself. Pain and the copper tang of blood shove the feeling of panic aside for the moment and he’s able to stay standing, swaying only for a second. Still he can’t find it in himself to speak yet.

“Sir as you are the subject’s…,” She hesitates again, stumbling on the word, unsure of how to treat such a delicate topic, “next of kin, we defer to you for the final decision.”

It takes him a long moment to realize she’s gone quite, waiting for an answer he isn’t ready to give. Of course no matter what he says, if the Director decides differently, it won’t matter. The fact that they were even asking him though had to mean he wouldn’t protest.

She was still waiting for him. Eyes growing less guarded and more nervous as each second passed without even a twitch from the usually jovial Agent. He tried to open his mouth, tried to make a decision, but his body feels far away from him. His mind still numb to thought. Finally, the nurse realized she wouldn’t be getting an answer any time soon and makes a note on her chart. “I understand this is a lot to take in. I will give you a moment to process this and delay any action until you reach a decision.” She looked up and hesitates again, appearing like she might reach out to comfort him, but ultimately turned to leave. “The Subject is still in quarantine, but as soon as he is cleared within the next day or two, we will have someone come and fetch you if you’d like to see him. You have until then.” And with that she was gone and Reginald was left standing in the hall alone faced with a decision that no one person should ever be forced to make.

He eventually made it to his quarters.

Went through the motions of showing and dressing and getting ready to meet his team in the compound’s mess hall. He wasn’t hungry, didn’t feel up to being around people, and yet his feet carried him out of his rooms and through the halls. He wasn’t sure what he looked like, but the soldiers that went to greet him paused and thought better of it, concern creasing their brows as they turned away or scurried past him. He felt something building inside of him. Something heavy and unpleasant that made every move seem slow as if he were fighting against himself.

Somehow he ended up seated at one of the few tables scattered in the mess hall with an empty tray in front of him. The room was full of people, loud and boisterous, but he felt somehow alone. As if they existed in separate space. York and Carolina were teasing Washington as he squawked in indignation. North smiled clearly entertained even as he tried to defuse the situation. South was outright laughing, a mean spirited cackle that always unnerved the older man. Maine knocked Washington’s head forward in a not so subtle gesture to shut up and eat and Florida was sitting across from Reginald, shaking his head with an amused smile resting lightly on his face. Everything seemed normal.

But CT was staring straight at Reginald, face hard and unresponsive to South’s attempt to bring her into the conversation. Her face was once so open, expressive, but now her eyes were guarded and Reggie wondered when the last time he saw her smile was. The youngest of them and she had somehow lost so much more without them noticing.

Suddenly he couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time since hearing the nurse’s news he felt violently present. Everything snapped into a brilliant focus and the sudden cacophony of people joking and socializing and milling about as they ate was overwhelming. Carolina had caught his eyes and was looking curiously at him, as if readying to ask a question. Florida’s hand was reaching across the table towards him. His own hands were gripping the metal tray so hard he could feel the edges indenting his skin with angry red marks.

He needed to leave.

He needed to be anywhere but here.

Anywhere but in this oppressive, claustrophobic building.

He stood, stumbling over the bench, and storming from the room as the floors began to rock. He vaguely heard someone asking after him but was too far gone to care. As he walked he knew he wouldn’t make it to his room. Knew he had to but knew he _couldn’t_ and prayed to every bloody deity in existence that the bathroom would be empty for once.

He emptied his stomach into the first toilet he could reach, not bothering to shut the stall door and trusting anyone who had been lingering to get the fuck out before he regained control of himself. It wasn’t long before he was reduced to dry heaving and then just resting his clammy face against the porcelain, unable to worry about germs at the moment and only caring about how cool it felt against his heated skin. A little too late he noticed there was a steady pressure against his back, moving in slow circles accompanied by a soft voice. Even worse he realized he had started crying at some point, silent with only the barest amount of sniffling, but that was _still_ embarrassing enough to fill him with even more dread.

Despite this, he’s unable to move without prompting, finding himself dragged against a solid chest as someone grabs a wad of toilet paper to wipe his mustache and chin free of any vomit.

“CT if you could get some water, that’d be swell.” It was Florida’s voice that registered first.

“Right. Just a moment then.” CT had joined them?

“I’ll make sure the hallways are clear. Florida, once CT gets back, if you could make sure he makes it to his rooms I’ll find a medic and meet you there.” And Carolina.

“Of course, Carolina.”

“No no that won’t… that won’t be necessary.” It takes everything Reginald has to push himself out of Florida’s arms and speak. He looks up and finally sees their young leader (why is everyone in this program so sodding young?) standing near the door eyes locked onto his searching for any sign to the contrary of what he said.

“Are you sure?” Her tone was doubtful but there was no way in hell he was going to let a medic or nurse or doctor near him at the moment when his feet still felt as if they were floating far far far from the ground.

He takes a deep breath and nods, shakily sitting up and accepting Florida’s assistance. “Quite sure.” He swallows and all he can taste is bile. “Just a bit peaky, my dear, nothing to be worried about.” Even he heard the tremble in his voice as he spoke and wouldn’t be surprised if Carolina pressed the issue. She was always so strong willed, especially when it came to her teammate’s health, but he couldn’t share, even if he wanted to.

If he did, they still wouldn’t understand. Not truly. No one but a select few knew of his relation to Subject Gamma and even they were unaware of the full extent of their bond.

CT entered just as Carolina opened her mouth to protest. She leaned down to hand the bottle to Reggie, eyes far too knowing for his liking. “Climate change can be a bitch to deal with. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so dehydrated after our last missing, Wyoming.” It was said with a caring lilt that didn’t match her eyes and he merely accepted the bottle, immediately taking a swig to escape that probing look.

“Thank you, dearie.” He kept his response curt, trying very hard to inflect his voice with its usual upbeat disinterest and surprising himself at how steady it sounded. His head was still spinning, mind racing with the reality that was still rattling his entire being, but he’d gathered himself for the time being. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind from here on out.”

CT studied his face a little longer before pursing her lips and joining Carolina by the sinks. Florida, good man that one, was still sitting with him, waiting to help him stand and walk if needed, but the girls seemed antsy to leave now that the immediacy of the event had passed. Already Carolina was dismissing CT to let the others know they were fine and he could tell her furtive glances were less concerned and more polite, waiting for the chance to get back to her lunch.

He forced a smile. “Thank you for checking on me, but I assure you I am fine. No need to stick around, mate.”

It was flimsy, but she accepted the out, making sure he knew she’d be checking on him later before leaving him alone with Florida. As the two oldest and closest in age, they were often seen as a pair, despite rarely hanging out outside of their team, so it was no real surprise that she didn’t make an attempt to stay longer.

Florida was a solitary man and Wyoming was much the same. Still the other man’s presence was not wholly unwelcome as he steadied Reginald when the man stood and swayed. He kept a firm hand on his back as they walked. “A rather extreme reaction for dehydration, don’t you think?”

Reggie pressed the damp paper towel they’d grabbed before leaving the restroom to his face to hide his wince. “Yes well…” He really didn’t have a come-back for that, feeling the weight of the decision he was going to have to make resettle now that his panic had faded into a dull thrum at the back of his mind. For a second he wondered if it would really be so bad to let someone in. To tell the truth of his being here at the project. To speak about Subject Gamma freely without the context of the trials. For a second he felt his wallet loaded with family pictures burning in his pocket longing to be shared. For a second he contemplated considering this man—any of his team really—a friend outside of work.

The second passed and he felt cold. “Do you have any children, old chap?”

Florida smiled his ever present smile and looked to the florescent lights on the ceiling in thought. “Unfortunately not.” His smile seemed to dim, but only for the blink of an eye before it was back to its usual splendor. “Although I consider all of us family and sometimes feel rather fatherly towards the younger of our group. So full of energy and life! Makes me wish for my younger days.”

His declaration was much friendlier than Reginald’s and, if the Brit didn’t know any better, he’d almost feel guilty. However, he knew the man’s claim to family was loose and would readily be sacrificed if orders demanded it to be. None of them were unaware of his double life, splitting his time between the project’s main assignments and his solo assignment as some kind of handler to a mysterious asset, and he didn’t bother to hide the fact that he valued that assignment and that asset over any of them.

Still Reginald was vulnerable at the moment and much too drained to let cynicism keep him from what little distraction he could grasp onto. “Children break your heart, my friend. Whether by their own actions or the passage of time, they will break your heart and leave you feeling as lost as a teenager again.” His statement was unnecessarily dismal and sent a jolt through him at just how dramatic he sounded. “The ultimatums they will present you with, if you’re ever so lucky enough to have any of your own mate, will leave you reeling and indecisive. Wondering ‘what ifs’ until your head is so full of useless paranoia and second guessing that you won’t have any space for rational thought.” He might be rambling, he wasn’t sure. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. This wasn’t something he could bottle up and keep to himself. Not this time.

Florida hummed and slowed their pace as the barracks’ hallways came into view. “I’m afraid I’ll never have that joy, Wyoming. Not in this life time.” He grins and it’s a terrifying sight. “But if I did get the chance, I don’t think I’d let go, not for a second. There’s no use burdening yourself with questions when the answer is always going to be right in front of you.” He turns his head to look at Wyoming, beaded braids loud in the silent hall.

Reginald honestly has no response to that so he hums and stays silent until they part ways at his quarters.

After brushing his teeth, he sits on his bed, thinking of Subject Gamma, thinking of the reason for their involvement in the program, thinking finally with a clear head now that the shock has passed and given way to solemn contemplation.

Gamma wasn’t Gamma to him. He was Gary. A young teenager with a silver tongue and moles that dotted his face and neck. Blue eyes sharp and scathing except he always let his hair grow a little too long so his fringe always ended up falling into them, no matter how immaculately styled he tried to keep it. Gangly and awkward, more interested in science fiction and video games than the girls that he scared off with his pathological lying. Camping together, kayaking and rock climbing when he could coax him away from his computer. Startling amber eyes that was all that remained of his mother.

Fainting in class. MRIs, CT scans, blood tests. An eventual diagnosis with only months to live.

Reginald clenches his jaw and buries his face in his hands.

In a time where Reggie felt beyond hopeless, useless and clawing at any shred of optimism for his son’s sake, they had thought the project would be a cure. Chosen and approached because of his espionage background they were invited into a clinical trial in exchange for Reginald’s return from retirement. He watched as his son seemed to grow better. He listened to the Director when he reassured him that their health was top priority. And yet after two years of service, two years of doing some man’s--who was barely older than himself—bidding, two years of his son being subjected to test after test while rumors of other subjects succumbing and failing floated through the halls in whispers, two years of _hope_ —

He wasn’t dead though.

Gary wasn’t dead.

Even on the slim chance of him ever recovering, on the faint presence of brain activity that may or may not mean anything, he was still alive.

Was it selfish to hold on to that thread of hope?

The answer was right in front of him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> work is getting crazy so updates are taking longer  
> thank you guys for sticking around! hopefully the next one won't take as long.  
> i also post on tumblr and am always open to talking to people! @turtlesinsweaters

Before Butch Flowers was a super soldier for a failed project with the intent to save the world in some way or another, he was a normal man with normal aspirations and a normal life.

Before _that_ , he was a kid riddle with abandonment issues that manifested in explosive bouts of anger and violent tendencies. He gave classmates swirlies, wedgies, hung them from flag poles, duct taped them to toilets, dipped girls’ hair in paint, made up cruel nicknames and taunts, took joy in fighting, and any other act that would get him sent home with a suspension and recommendation for anger management sessions. He was, in a word, a bully.

Of course most people sided with him, looking at him in pity, excusing his behavior with a shrug and a what could you expect? His father was a drunk and had run out on his mother and himself after all.

No one would have ever guessed that the one thing to keep him grounded, the one thing that shown a light in his aggressive and hate-filled life, was the thought of one day having a family of his own. He kept journals with plans of his future family and house, driving kids to futball practice, teaching them to surf, laying under the shade of the trees with his wife and watch as the Sun dipped below the horizon. It was his greatest kept secret at the time.

Eventually that scrappy kid grew. Went to college--the first in his family—and set out to make his dream a reality. He moved from bullying to flirting. Flashing charming smiles. A twinkle in his gorgeous eyes. He used his good looks and learned savvy to knock down defenses and woo women. Unlike his friends, he went for the humble girls, with a little more weight and a lot more attitude. The women who he suspected would be looking for the same as he was.

It didn’t take him long to figure out that generalizing was the worst way to go about this. If his rush to commit wasn’t enough to scare them off, his temper was.

When he found himself several years later, single and watching his friends marry one after another, drowning his sorrows until he was kicked out of his regular bar for starting yet another bar fight, he had a moment of startling realization. In his desperate need to be the opposite, he was turning into his father.

He quit drinking. Met a girl in AA who could handle herself, who gave just as good as she got when he lashed out, who forced him into anger management and therapy. She was perfect. His ebony queen. They got engaged after a year, started trying for a child as soon as he proved himself, and within a year and a half they were happily settled into a routine. He thought he was happy. That he was on his way to his dream.

She left him once they found out he was impotent.

After that it was a string of disappointments and heartbreak. He continued therapy, clinging to any stability he could latch onto, but his dating life stagnated, tempered with the thought that he could never have kids of his own flesh and blood.

At one point he went off the rails, started dating people that put him in positions that could have gotten him killed. Dated girls who drank and partied, who wanted nothing to do with starting a family or growing old. He let them take his pain and grief and turn it into something else. It was blur, honestly.

The defining moment where things finally seemed to click, where that anger that had ruled him since the moment his father left dissipated, leaving him almost weightless with relief, came towards the end of that era of his life. He met a girl, as these things go, and that girl introduced him to Rastafari.

Being native to Jamaica for the majority of his formative years, Flowers was very familiar with the movement that had dominated his youth. As his mother had moved them to the states so he could have a chance at a better education, he had never become involved with or let himself be influenced by it outside of a few Bob Marley albums. Now, however, he sank into it, letting his desperation, shame, and anger be swept away in a spiritual and religious awakening.

He let his hair dread, smoked ganja (weed), participated in reasoning and groundations, and rejected western idles (despite at the time living in Miami). This lasted for as long as he was dating the girl. She eventually left him for some corporate suit that offered to pay her way through medical school.

So it turned out neither were as committed to the actual life style as they had presumed.

Although some convictions he picked up stuck with him and it was no surprise when he converted to Buddhism.

This time he didn’t let himself get carried away by it. He sought peace and enlightenment in his own way, channeled his anger into something rather than repressing it with smoking and disillusioned ideals. It was through this course of action that he sought to better understand _himself_. He stopped searching for his “other half” and the future they could have together and instead let himself be ok with being alone. He took up martial arts, traveled the world doing odd jobs and living off of the Earth when necessary, met and parted ways with new friends and old, even sought out his father for closure. That closure came in the form of a dusty grave stone, but still it lifted his heart just to stop wondering.

When he felt content with everything he’d done, with who he was and who he had been, he moved back to the States. Picked up his old degree and dusted it off. Worked full time in a kitchen, part-time at a Jiu Jitsu studio, and took classes at night to eventually get a job working as a social worker.

He was in his thirties when he met someone who would send him closer to his abandoned dream than ever before.

Lavernius Tucker was Butch Flowers’s tenth case. In Foster Care since he was three, he had a tough time relating to people and often scared off potential Guardians with the crass behavior and language he had picked up from the other kids. His previous Case Worker had given up when the child had told him point-blank that he didn’t _want_ a family because no family wanted him.

Butch didn’t think that was true. A ten-year-old who didn’t want a family? If it were, then that was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. He took on a positive disposition for his first meeting with the child, figuring frustration had clouded his coworker’s report.

Their first meeting went about as well as one could expect.

Honestly the gangly child he met with corn rows and a bent pair of glasses that kept sliding down his nose reminded the man of himself when he was younger. He had the same mistrust and anger shining in his eyes and every spit curse word and insult screamed for attention. He’d sneered, the gap between his two front teeth and freckles on his cheeks undermining the intimidating look he was going for, and called Butch an ‘old fart.’ The rest of their session was a study in patience as the kid derailed every topic he tried to bring up with an off color comment or joke.

After three sessions, Butch Flowers noticed something that he thought could help him bridge this gap of disinterest. So for their next meeting, he sat back in the rickety dining room chair and smiled at the boy across from him. “Tucker, do you have any questions for me that you’d like to ask?”

His eyes had lit up, as if the simple question had never been occurred to him before. These sessions were all about the child with the social worker leading the interview. Having the tables turned so now the child was in charge was significant, especially in a child who hated talking about themselves.

After that, they started each meeting with a question and answer session, sharing answer for answer until Tucker was looking at Butch less like an enemy and more like a trusted ally. As he learned more and more about Flowers’s troubled past, about their similar beginnings, and his life since, he grew excited for their visits. Opened up about his own insecurities and fears. When he learned how Butch scaled mountains and climbed to the mouth of volcanoes just for the hell of it, he declared he would be brave like that, _more so_ even. His confidence in himself increased and he started doing better in school. He ignored the bullies he dealt with, dissolved friendships that were no good, and actually _tried_ in interviews with families. He was still hesitant to put faith in strangers, but he didn’t let his bitterness stop him from smiling and bragging about his accomplishments in school (which weren’t much; he was an average student, but he was at least applying himself now and his potential showed through in A’s and B’s). He stopped wearing his glasses, apparently no longer in need of the safety blanket they provided as they had, in fact, been fake, let Flowers cut his hair—though he grew it out from then on--, and even used the little money he got from chores to buy himself some clothes that didn’t scream hood rat to any of the more conservative guardians.

Almost two years later he was adopted by a man and his pregnant wife. They hadn’t wanted their daughter to grow up as a single child and Tucker was _ecstatic_ to be a big brother. He’d smiled the brightest most cheerful smile Flowers had ever seen from him.

It was at that point that Butch Flowers felt regret at not taking the initiative and filing for adoption himself.

As his case worker, he stayed in contact, checking in every few weeks, and then months to see how his charge was doing. As soon as the baby was born, however, their phone calls and visits became shorter. No time for personal updates with a baby sister in the house. Not until she turned four and their father decided he’d had enough and ditched them. Tucker had called him from his high school after a fight and Butch dropped everything to pick him up and take him home.

He was invited for dinner and so he’d stayed, unable to say no to a woman who looked as tired as he felt with a crying toddler on her hip. It was an awkward affair to say the least. After he said goodnight, he thought that was the end of it. His involvement was no longer necessary.

Once again he was proved wrong when Tucker showed up at his work with his backpack slung over his shoulder and sister in his arms. Panic seized Butch at the implications and he’d ordered the two to stay in his office while he called their mother. He needn’t have bothered, though. Their mother was quick to calm him down. Apparently she had tried calling earlier and even left a message asking if he wouldn’t mind watching the two for the evening. Divorce proceedings could be messy and she wanted to two of them as far away from it as possible.

So for almost a month, Flowers played babysitter to the two children after school. For almost a month he helped their mother pick up groceries when she was too tired, take Tucker to basketball practice, make sure his sister made her play dates, and slowly integrated into this broken family, all the while reassuring Tucker that no this wasn’t his fault. That _no_ boys like him and men like Flowers weren’t cursed. That his mother loved him and that _was_ enough. That Flowers cared for him and _that_ was enough. Somehow in this month of upheaval he found himself becoming a part of the family.

Maybe not in the way he’d always envisioned, but perhaps this was enough for him as well.

It was through Tucker that Butch Flowers met the one person who would take all of that away from them.

Leonard Church II came around in the boys’ first year of college. Paired together as roommates, they ended up spending every second of the day that wasn’t taken up by class time together. Flowers only knew of him through Tucker’s periodic visits to the office where he’d spend the majority of the time complaining about the lazy rude oaf he was forced to live with. It was a shock when Tucker joined Leonard’s paintball team, but he supposed he had gotten the brunt of his ward’s frustration as a third party. Young men were always easy to rile after all.

Honestly nothing untoward happened until the infamous Church visited the martial arts studio Flowers taught at on the weekends. Tucker had a part-time job as a receptionist to help pay his tuition and it seemed he’d promised his roommate that he could get him a job there as well since he was _so close_ to one of the instructors. The entitlement pushed Flower’s temper and he’d had to practice his deep breathing for a good five extra minutes to keep from going off on him in front of the staff.

He couldn’t help but feel a little vindictive however and instead offered them both the chance to work at his firm doing menial office tasks and filing. Ok part of that wasn’t vindictive, part of it was genuine. After all Tucker was studying to be a Social Worker as well, following Flowers with the hope of helping children like himself who were given the worst lot in life, but that didn’t mean the satisfaction he felt when he saw their faces drop in disappointment at _office work_ was any less welcome.

He'd never had made the suggestion if he’d known the trouble it would bring.

Background checks could be a bitch and not just because of the paper work.

“Butch Flowers, I presume?” The voice was thick with a southern accent and had a drawl to it that sent the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The man standing in the door to his office studied the room with an unimpressed scowl, the bamboo plants and soothing fountains seeming to personally offend his sensibilities.

Flowers slapped on a pleasant smile and tried not to let a snap judgement on his part deter whatever business this man had with him. That he looked strikingly similar to his newest employee didn’t escape his notice. “That would be me.” He countered the unenthused tone of his guest with a joyful titter, hoping to set them at ease. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

The man didn’t relax, but he did step inside and hold his hands behind his back unsure of what to make of the person who sat before him. “You hired my son recently.”

It was said as if the reveal was a dramatic one, but Flowers had already guessed as much and merely stood and held out his hand. “Leonard’s father then! It is nice to finally meet you, Mr. Church.” His greeting seemed to catch the man off guard and he hesitated before shaking his hand, covering the slip up with a curt nod.

“Director, if you wouldn’t mind.” The request brokered no argument however. Something felt off about this man. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

He ignored the feeling in favor of gesturing to a seat before his desk and sitting back down. “Please take a seat, Director. Can I get you anything? Water? Brandy?”

The Director shook his head politely and took a seat, still stiff and all business. It was odd to see a man who looked so much like the loud mouthed and often exasperated friend of his charge be so formal and respectful. A nice change if Butch was honest. He’d grown fond of Church just as he had of Tucker, but the brash behavior was often tiring and reminded him far too much of a time when he held just as much anger. The Director adjusted his glasses. “No that won’t be necessary.” Cold as ice. Clearly this wasn’t the social visit Flowers had been expecting. “I’ve done my research on you, Mr. Flowers—“

“Butch. Please.”

“Butch. Yes well,” startled, the man cleared his throat and folded his hands in his lap. “I understand you have had a colorful history and I merely want to be sure that there won’t be incidents that might endanger my son or his future while working with you.”

If he weren’t so used to having to explain his past to others, Flowers might have it in him to be offended at the accusation. That he merely smiled and leaned back in his chair unnerved his guest. “You have nothing to worry about, Director. This is a place of business and I am nothing if not professional when dealing with my employees.”

The Director thought for a moment, lips thinning. “I understand you are considered a master in martial arts as well?”

Flowers blinked at that, the question unexpected and a complete departure from worried parent. “Yes. I am.” Attempting to reign in the conversation, he smiled again and reached across his desk to adjust a framed picture of him at a tournament in Japan so the other could see. “Placed in a few competitions as well as studied with masters all over the world in my travel-the-world phase.” He relaxed back and gestured to the framed picture of a younger more unkempt version of himself training by a beautiful waterfall in China behind him. “It was an exciting time, though I don’t practice much anymore aside from teaching at a studio on the weekends.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing though not losing any of his cheer. “May I ask why the interest?”

He seemed unimpressed though eager to continue. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward on the edge of his seat. “My son is delicate due to a hereditary infliction. I have done my best over the years to keep an eye on him but find myself… _inadequate_ to deal with his sudden independence.” If that wasn’t a red flag to the social worker, Flowers didn’t know what would be.

The way he talked about his son as if he were an inconvenience and something to be _taken care of_ reminded Flowers of the often neglectful parents he dealt with. Most were unintentionally so and with a bit of counseling seemed to do much better, but this man clearly had no interest in a personal relationship with his son. It was sad and Flowers suddenly had very little interest in what the other man had to say. “I’m sorry to say, sir, but your son is an adult. If he needs medical care, of course I will gladly step in, but otherwise his decisions are for him to make.” His cheery front was growing hostile and he stood, intent on ending this ill-conceived meeting.

The Director looked shocked to be talked to in such a way. He seemed to scramble to correct his mistake, standing as well and looking beseechingly to the other man. “No no you misunderstand! I’m afraid I may have chosen the wrong word choice.” Flower’s skin still crawled with righteous indignation but it settled at the flustered change in the other. He sighed and sat back down after a moment, façade gone and a steely expression taking over. The Director understood that he was on thin ice and rushed to the main reason for this visit. “I must admit I was initially interested in you due to your involvement with my son, but once I learned of your expertise, my interest took a more professional turn.” He adjusted ran a hand over his slicked back hair as he spoke, regaining his composure and trying to make up for losing face. “You see I am the head of a— _consultant_ company and am putting together a team of specially qualified members for certain tasks. After hearing of your involvement in skirmishes during your time abroad, I came to the decision that you could be one of those individuals.” He paused waiting for Flowers to react.

For his part Butch had no idea what the man expected. He was being cryptic at best, giving nothing away while making the offer seem appealing, like a favor. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at the neat line of hair along his jaw in thought.

Realizing the man wouldn’t be responding, the Director pushed on. “I understand this is sudden and am afraid I cannot reveal much more about the project at the moment. I also understand that you already have a career that you’ve built up through the years. However, I know that outside of this place, you have nothing of great significance in your life.” The blunt statement caught Flowers by surprise, sending his pulse racing in offense. “Please don’t misconstrue that as an insult, it is merely an observation.” The Director leans forward again, elbows braced on his knees and a harsh look in his eyes. “As successful as you are, your life here is not fulfilling. Not completely.” His words cut deep and Flowers feels his hands curl into fists in his lap. “I am here to offer you a chance to reclaim the drive you once had. The project I am setting up will allow you time to continue your work if you so choose, however you will be expected to travel for extended periods of time and will place you in possibly dangerous positions.” The last piece of information hung in the air between them. The Director stood and nodded to him. “I don’t expect an answer right away, but I do hope you will consider this proposition. An email will be sent to your private account with more information to better inform your decision.” He slipped a business card from his pocket and passed it to Flowers who was still quiet, unsure of what to make of this absurd situation. “I hope to be hearing from you soon, Mr. Flowers.”

And just like that he was gone leaving Flowers sitting in confused silence until his phone rang and he was back to focusing on work, shaking the encounter off as nothing more than odd.

Something about it stuck with him through the week that followed. Plagued him as he received no further contact. He studied Church when he came in with Tucker, looking for any indication that he knew about his father’s visit, but seeing nothing but an average college student busy with their studies and trying to live a life outside of school. He eventually forgot the run-in.

Until he received an email from an account named “Freelancer.”

The information inside of that email set him on edge. More than that it fueled him into making several calls and later selling his home in favor of a small month to month apartment. His dreams were replaced with ambition and fuel to keep those he loved safe.

Candid photos of Tucker and his family, of Flowers’s mother back in Jamaica, of his students and coworkers. Files of personal information all being exploited by a man with sleek glasses and a goatee that screamed cartoon villain. Dr.  Leonard Church had said this was an offer, but Flowers soon realized this was anything but.

Even still, when he picked up the phone, dialed the number on the back of the business card, and bit out a harsh affirmative, he couldn’t help but feel a slight tingle of excitement. His hands shook not with fear but with anticipation. When he called Tucker and told him that Flowers was going on an extended work retreat, he felt longing, but he didn’t feel regret.

A month later he was staking out his first mission in Tahiti.

Strictly gathering information.

A year after that he was working infiltration on a team under the command of a fiery red-head. Had a bunk with bamboo plants and soothing rock fountains situated in a pleasing order. He never trusted the Director, though he played nice and acted the part of loyal soldier lest the family he left behind end up as collateral damage. He kept himself calm and cheerful. Let his anger grow cold and merciless on the battlefield. When he looked into the mirror, he didn’t see the man who once dreamed of a family. He saw a killer. A soldier. Occasionally he’d return to his “home” but even then he was on assignment, asked to keep a close eye on the Director’s son.

Wyoming became a friend. A confidant. They kept personal matters out of their conversations, but they readily shared their interests and joked around about their younger team members. When things went sour, when the project went up in smoke and he found out who Wyoming was there for, he questioned himself. His motives and the joy he found in the work they did before the work was revealed to be what it was.

He was the one that stuck around. He held no loyalty to the project or its members, but he realized that he’d thrown away his life for this cluster-fuck and had nothing to return to. Tucker had long since stopped trying to contact him, his mother had a fiancé now, and his firm had all but replaced him. Briefly he considered helping Wyoming with his son, but the thought was dismissed as soon as the man turned freelance, operating outside of the program. It was bad luck that had him placed once again on watch duty.

He was stationed at his old job after what was explained as medical leave and became a counselor at the university.

Flowers wished he’d run when he’d had the chance.

Stories of the outbreak were speculation, shrugged off as a problem for the CDC. He recognized the symptoms from some of the assets the project dealt with, but it never struck him as anything significant until he was scratched by someone on the way to work. If he hadn’t been riding the public bus, he would have thought it odd. The fever didn’t hit until that evening.

Church was the only other person in the office.

In his last moments of coherency, Flowers thought back to the life he could have had if he’d just said no. Back then he had been scared, but now he knew that had been their strategy. To use something he cared about against him to get him to say yes with no intentions of following through on the assumed threat. He thought back to helping Tucker and his sister with homework and longed to have paid more attention to their silly stories and small grievances. He thought of Tucker and Church, looking to him for advice, for comfort, for everything their own fathers had denied them.

His office was a mess, bamboo knocked over, soil strewn over the carpet, fountains overflowing on their sides. Church was backed into his desk, panicked and terrified. His hand settled on the crystal paperweight carved into the shape of a Buddha (a gift from Tucker for his promotion—it was his prized possession).

Everything went red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we see Tucker and aliens???????


End file.
